


The hearts I broke and the lives I took

by livia_bj



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Porthos gives some comfort, dead characters around, ghost story, is Aramis losing his mind?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livia_bj/pseuds/livia_bj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After knowing about Adèle's death, Aramis really starts to feel the weight of the world on his shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The hearts I broke and the lives I took

_Knock   Knock_

Aramis opened the door knowing beforehand who was behind it. Of course, it had to be Porthos. Without a single word he stepped aside to let him came in.

“Athos told me what happened. He believes, and he’s right, that you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Aramis closed the door.

“Why? What do you think am I going to do? I’m just…here”. He gestured toward the room with his hand.

“Then I will be here with you, if you don’t mind.”

Aramis walked to the fireplace. He didn’t seem to be especially happy for having such a dear company, but he didn’t reject his friend either.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Good. I don’t have any.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want any advice either.”

“You never listen to them anyway.”

Porthos waited until his friend settled in before the fire and observed him carefully. He was not drinking; in fact, he was not doing anything at all, besides staring at the dance of the red and golden flames.

After a while he finally removed his coat, took a chair and sat next to him. The place was warm, and even if the chairs were not really comfortable, they remain in silence for so long that Porthos started to doze off.

Suddenly Aramis spoke again.

“The people I love…. They die around me so easily…”

Porthos was brought back to life in less than a second. He frowned, he was about to ask if he might have misheard what the other man just said. But there was no doubt; of course Aramis was blaming himself for the death of every single creature in the world since the day he was born.

“I must be such an evil thing. Or maybe I’m not evil but… I’m not sure I can be good either”

“Stop that bullshit. I thought you said you don’t want any pity on you.”

Aramis looked at him, hurt.

“Isabelle died because of me.”

“Even if I was not there, I was reliably informed that it wasn’t you who shot at her.”

“Adèle died because of me.”

“Again. Tell me you killed her.”

“Well, not directly! But they are both dead and I am the one to blame! If I hadn’t gone to the convent or if I hadn’t chosen her of all women to…entertain myself... They would be still alive.”

He stopped talking.

“You forget to mention that little snail that your boot crashed this morning.”

Porthos hated to be so blunt at him, for he loved him so much. But it was the only way with Aramis sometimes; when he would choose to cover himself with guilt and remorse, compassion only made things worse.

They could go on and on for hours in a vicious circle of one of them selling self-compassion and the other one offering sympathetic words.  It was exhausting.

It was the way they did it at first; but over time, Porthos had learned to confront dark thoughts with true facts; a cure of reality he would call it. Even if this technique would make him look unsympathetic to the casual observer. 

It was for this reason that on that night, he was choosing the hard path. And yet, Porthos knew well where the line was; he knew well when to be tough, and when to stop and give the affection that Aramis needed.

“I killed Marsac. He was so dear to me. And I killed him, because I had to.”

“That, I can’t deny.”

Aramis carried on with his personal list of shameful actions, his gaze fixed on the fire.

“I also killed your friend, back there in the Court.” 

“Charon? I didn’t know what a friend was until I met you and Athos. Besides, we already talked about that and you promised me to stop taking it personal.”

Aramis was not looking away from the fire, and Porthos knew all this talk was being made to distract him from something else. He rose up and kneeled before Aramis, taking his face in his hands and forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Aramis, what is that you’re not telling me?”

His friend looked at him with bright eyes.

“I’m scared.”

Porthos caressed his cheeks with his thumbs.

“Of what?”

“I’m scared of end up being like my poor mother, surrounded by ghosts…. Ghosts of the people who died…because of me.”

Porthos swallowed hard. Had Aramis’ mother suffered from mental illness? He never mentioned anything before.  It was true nevertheless, that none of them spoke about their past or their families unless they were forced to by external circumstances.

That was not the question to focus on now, anyway. He got closer and gave his friend a loving embrace.

“I love you.” 

He said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“Don’t say that.” Aramis sobbed a little in his arms. “People who say that end up dead or having miserable lives.”

Porthos overcame the instinct of telling him not to be stupid; instead he hugged him harder and kissed his head.

“I will not stop saying that I love you. Not now, not ever.”

Finally Aramis returned his embrace, holding himself to Porthos like if he was the only thing keeping him from falling into a pit of darkness and desperation. He stopped fighting back his tears, and he cried, his face hidden in the crook of Porthos’ neck.

He didn’t lie to his best friend, his brother, his lover. He didn’t lie to him, but he didn’t tell him all the truth either.

His deepest secret was not one to be told. It was too bad already that Athos was involved; he had to keep Porthos away from that, even if that meant to also keep him away from a very important part of his life.

He let the tears fall free from his eyes, he let his own body shake, and he totally left himself to be unarmed in the warmth of Porthos’ arms; the only place where he could still feel safe.

The two of them stayed like that until the fire died, and then laid on the bed and tried to get some rest. 

Porthos, deeply concerned and haunted by questions he won’t ask. Aramis, a man full of love and faith, but also full of ashes and despair.

 

 

_One year later_

It was a full moon night. Aramis was spending the night alone in that stupid forest, and even if his sight was clear enough thanks to the moonlight, he had to admit this one hadn’t been a good idea.

He was really trying to sleep, imagining he was somewhere else, when he heard a voice. He rose up quickly, ready for the fight. He could not see anyone, but he still heard the voice. It seemed to be a female voice, and she seemed to be singing.

That was not right. That was not right at all. How could it be? A woman singing in the forest at such hours? He gulped, he had no wish to follow the mysterious voice, but he was a soldier after all. He could not let something like that just pass. Therefore he got his pistol and proceeded to follow the sound.

He didn’t have to walk long. The path went down on one side of the hill; there was a stream of water down there, and yes, apparently there was a woman washing some white linen. She was alone, bathed by the pale light of the moon, no other candle or lamp around. 

Aramis frowned; well, that was an unusual hour for doing laundry, but other than that, he didn’t see anything suspicious in the picture.  The woman squeezed the clothes and hanged them upon the branch of a tree. Aramis couldn’t see her face, but she did saw him, for she asked for his help.

“Would you be so kind to get down here and help me, monsieur?”

Her voice sounded familiar too him, too much familiar. The whole situation was starting to give him the willies, but of course he couldn’t refuse. So he went down the path leading to the river and approached her carefully, until the moment he saw her face.

His heart stopped beating.

Marguerite.

His blood froze in his veins.

Marguerite.

And she faded away.

Aramis felt as if his legs weren’t there anymore, and slowly realized it was because he fell down on his knees at some point. Breathing was hurting his lungs, his heartbeat was pounding in his ears, and his mouth had gone dry.

It had to be a nightmare, it couldn’t be real. Or perhaps it was a trick from his own brain, all his remorse finding a way to escape from his mind.

And yet he looked at the tree and the clothes were there. He decided he had to touch them; to know if they were also real, to prove he had seen a spirit. Or to know if there was nothing there and he was finally going mad.

His legs refused to cooperate, so he crawled to the tree; the linen clothes were there, but it was not water what was slipping drop by drop from them. It was blood.

And for the first and the last time in his life, Aramis fainted.

 

The bright morning sun was shining upon him when he finally came back to life.

He blinked and his hand covered his eyes from the annoying light. He felt like if he was emerging from a dark place, slightly disoriented. He listened to his horse’ neigh next to him and that sound made him focus faster; suddenly remembering everything, he sat up and looked around terrified.

It was a sunny morning, early birds singing and all that shit. His horse made another sound, probably trying to remind him that he wanted his breakfast. Nothing seemed to be wrong.

He examined himself and found nothing remarkable; everything was exactly as he left it last night, his pistol next to the bag that he had been using as a pillow.

However, he could vividly remember everything that happened last night; he still could feel the cold inside him, no matter how warm the sun was. His legs still were shaking a little, but he decided to go back to the stream of water.

Only that he couldn’t find it. There was no source of water next to his little camp, not even a hill. Just plain land with trees surrounded him. He shook his head.

Could had it been just a nightmare? But it was so real….

He remembered that old conversation he had with Porthos on the night when he found out that Adèle was dead.

 

 _Los fantasmas_.

 

The ghosts were finally coming to him.

 

Would his God now close the book on the hearts he broke and the lives he took?

Would he turn away now because it was too late to save his soul?

 

With a desperation he never felt on his life before, he fell on his knees and started praying.

 

_Forgive me ,Father, for I have sinned..._

**Author's Note:**

> If you're thinking there should be a second part, I agree.  
> My brain does not, however.
> 
> I just started to write, out of the blue, and once I got all this out I asked:  
> and now?  
> And brain said: Dunno, fuck you. Goodbye.
> 
> I will leave the chapters option open anyway, for if one day Brain decides to go on with it.
> 
> *heavy sigh*
> 
> Just reminding you that I'm not a native English speaker and I apologize for my mistakes.  
> It is not my intention to ruin your reading. I beg your forgiveness.
> 
> This is me, if anyone out there is interested:  
> http://black-isthecolour.tumblr.com/
> 
> (one day, I'll learn how to properly link my blog)
> 
> (but that day is not today)


End file.
